by Emile Zola
Suddenly, as she was lying with her eyes tightly closed, Buteau caught hold of her.
‘You beast! You beast!’ she stammered, pushing him away.
‘Stupid. Let yourself go! They're all asleep, there's nobody looking.’
At that moment, Palmyre's pale deathlike face peered over the wheat, looking towards the noise. But no one ever paid attention to her; it was as if a cow had turned her head in their direction. And in fact she went back unconcernedly to her sheaves. Once more you could hear her bones creaking with every effort.
‘Go on, stupid. Lise won't know anything about it.’
Hearing her sister's name, Françoise, who was beginning to weaken and admit defeat, summoned up fresh energy. And now she refused to give in and struck him with both fists and kicked with her bare legs, which he had already exposed up to her hips. This man wasn't her man! Why have somebody else's leftovers?
‘Take my sister, you dirty beast! Stuff her as much as you like, give her a baby every night.’
Her blows began to make Buteau lose his temper and, thinking that she was merely afraid of the consequences, he started to remonstrate with her:
‘Don't be damned stupid! I swear I'll pull it out so you don't have a baby.’
Then she kicked him in the crutch and, forced to let her go, he pushed her away so roughly that she stifled a cry of pain.
But the game now had to end, for when he stood up Buteau saw Lise coming back with the tea. He went to meet her and engaged her attention for a moment, to give Françoise time to pull her skirt down. The thought that she was going to give him away made him feel sorry that he hadn't knocked her out with the heel of his shoe. But she said nothing and merely sat down in the middle of the sheaves with a sulky expression on her face.
And when he started reaping again, she sat idly there, looking very high and mighty.
‘What's up?’ asked Lise, who was also lying down, tired by her errand. ‘Aren't you going to work?’
‘No, I'm fed up,’ she answered crossly.
Not daring to take her to task, Buteau pitched into his wife. What the devil did she think she was doing lying there like a sow warming her belly in the sun? That was a fine thing, that was, a real pumpkin to ripen up! She laughed at the expression, for at heart she was still a fat cheerful village gossip and perhaps it really was true that the sun was ripening and helping the mite along; and she stretched out her great fat belly under the blazing sky so that it looked like a seed protruding from the fertile earth. But he was not joking. He roughly told her to stand up and try and help him. Hampered by this enormous bulk hanging down between her thighs, she had to kneel down and pick up the ears sideways, puffing and blowing like some monster as her belly flopped over to the right.
‘You might as well go home if you're not going to do anything,’ she said to her sister. ‘You can get supper ready.’
Françoise walked off without saying a word. The heat was still stifling but Beauce was once more full of activity; as far as the horizon the numberless little black dots making up the teams were swarming like ants. Delhomme was finishing off his straw-hives with his two farm-hands, while La Grande stood watching her own stack growing taller and taller, leaning on her stick, all ready to lay it about the head of any slacker. Fouan went over to take a look at it and then came back and stood absorbed, watching his son-in-law working, before wandering off, heavy-footed, like an old man full of memories and regrets. Françoise, with her head buzzing and not properly recovered from the shock, was going along the new road when a voice hailed her.
‘This way! Come and see.’
It was Jean, half-hidden behind the sheaves which he had been carting from the fields near by all the morning. He had just unloaded his cart and the two horses were standing waiting motionless in the sun. They were not going to make the main stack until the next day and he had simply built three walls with the sheaves, to form a little private den of straw.
‘It's me, come on in!’
Without thinking, Françoise obeyed. She did not even bother to look back; had she done so, she would have seen Buteau peering after her in surprise at seeing her leave the road.
Jean said jokingly:
‘Aren't you a bit hoity-toity to go by like that without saying hallo to your friends?’
‘What can you expect if you keep yourself hidden away?’ she replied.
He complained that he no longer felt welcome at the Buteaus. But she was in no mind to listen and replied very briefly. Without being invited, she had sunk down on the straw at the end of the little den, as though tired out. Her mind and body had room for only one sensation, intense and physical: that man's assault on her at the edge of the field, his hot hands that she could still feel holding her thighs in a vicelike grip, his smell still pursuing her, his amorous advances that she was still anticipating with bated breath and a thrill of fear and repressed desire. She shut her eyes: she could hardly breathe.
Jean had stopped talking too. The sight of her lying back in an attitude of surrender sent the blood coursing through his veins. He had not engineered this meeting, he was fighting back his feelings, thinking that it would be wrong to take advantage of such a child. But the throbbing of his heart confused him; he had been lusting after her so much and the thought of possessing her aroused all the wild feverish imaginings which had filled his sleepless nights. He lay down beside her, at first merely taking her hand, and then both her hands which he crushed in his own, not even venturing to press them to his lips. She made no attempt to withdraw them but opened her eyes, bewildered, looking at him unsmiling and unashamed, her mouth falling nervously open in bewilderment. And it was this mute gaze, almost a look of pain, which sent him suddenly berserk. He thrust his hand under her skirt and caught hold of her thighs, like the other man.
‘No, please don't,’ she faltered. ‘It's wrong.’
But she made no resistance and her only sound was a cry of pain. The ground seemed to be giving way beneath her and her head was spinning: was it the other man who had come back? There was the same brutality, the same acrid male odour of someone who had been working hard in the sun. Bewildered, her dark, stubbornly closed eyes shot with streaks of light, she was stammering confusedly, not knowing what she said.
‘You mustn't give me a baby! Pull it out!’
He gave a sudden jerk and, thwarted of its purpose, the sperm spurted out onto the ripe wheat, spilling over into the ever-willing, eternally fruitful earth, always ready to embrace every seed.
Stupefied, Françoise opened her eyes without saying a word or making a movement. Was it all over already, was that all the pleasure there was in it? Only the pain remained. And her mind went back to the other man, unconsciously regretting his frustrated desire. She felt irritated by Jean lying beside her. Why had she given in like that? He was old, she didn't love him. And he did not stir either, bemused by this strange adventure. Finally, he made a gesture of annoyance and tried without success to say something. Then, even more embarrassed, he decided to kiss her but she shrank away; she no longer wanted to be touched by him.
‘I must go,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You stay here for a moment.’
She made no reply, looking vaguely up at the sky.
‘All right? Wait five minutes so that you're not seen coming out at the same time as me.’
At last she spoke:
‘All right, off you go!’
And that was all. He cracked his whip, swore at the horses and trudged off, head down, beside his cart.
Meanwhile, Buteau was surprised at having lost Françoise behind the sheaves and when he saw Jean going off, he became suspicious. Without saying anything to Lise, he went off, bending double like a hunter taking cover. Then he sprang into the middle of the little straw den. Françoise was still lying stupefied and inert, looking at the sky, her legs all exposed. There was no point in denying what had happened and she made no attempt to do so.
‘So that's it, you dirty slut, you sleep with that tramp
and you kick me in the balls… Christ Almighty! We'll see about that.’
He had already taken hold of her and his flushed face showed her that he was going to take advantage of the situation. Why shouldn't he be the next one on the list? As soon as she felt his burning hands on her again, she felt the same repulsion as before. Now he was actually there, her previous longing had vanished and she no longer wanted him; she did not understand herself why she was so capricious but her whole being was protesting with vindictive jealousy.
‘Leave me alone, you beast! I'll bite you.’
Once again he was forced to desist. But he was stuttering with rage, infuriated at the thought of the pleasure he was missing.
‘Oh yes, I suspected you were having it off together. I should have kicked him out long ago. You dirty little bitch, letting that bugger stuff you.’
And the flow of filth went on and on, with every foul expression he could think of, describing what she had done in terms so crude as to leave her feeling naked and ashamed. But although she was equally furious, she controlled herself and, pale and composed, replied calmly and curtly to every obscenity he uttered.
‘What business is it of yours? If I like it, aren't I free to do it?’
‘All right, I'm going to turn you out of the house, then! Straight away, as soon as we get back. I'm going to tell Lise about the whole affair, how I found you with your skirt up over your head, and you can go and get stuffed somewhere else, since you're so fond of it!’
He was pushing her along in front of him, back to the field where his wife was waiting.
‘You can tell Lise. I'll do it if I want to.’
‘If you want to, eh? Well, we'll see about that. I'll kick you out on your arse!’
As a short cut, she had to cross the Cornailles field, which had not yet been divided between her and her sister, the field which he had always delayed splitting up, and with a sudden shock, an agonizing idea sprang into his mind: in a flash of insight, he had seen the field cut up into two, if he were to turn her out; she would have half and she might even give it to her lover. The thought chilled him and immediately his exasperation came down to earth. No, that would be stupid, you shouldn't throw everything overboard because a girl turned you down for once. There are plenty of other fish in the sea; whereas when you've got a bit of land, the thing is to hang on to it.
He had stopped talking and started walking more slowly, annoyed and not knowing how to make up for his violence before they reached his wife. Finally he said:
‘What I can't stand is ill will, I was irritated because you seem to dislike me… Apart from that, I'm not really anxious to cause my wife trouble, in her present state.’
The thought crossed her mind that he was afraid that she would give him away to Lise too.
‘Well, you can be sure of one thing, if you tell her, so shall I.’
‘Oh, I'm not frightened of that,’ he replied jauntily. ‘I'll tell her that you're lying, that you're taking your revenge because I caught you out.’
Finally, as they were coming up to Lise, he added hurriedly:
‘So we'll keep it quiet, eh? We'll talk it over again some other time.’
But Lise was beginning to be surprised: why was Françoise coming back with Buteau? He explained that the lazy girl had gone off to sulk behind a haystack over there. In any case, a hoarse cry suddenly interrupted them and cut the matter short.
‘What was that? Was someone shouting?’
It was a terrifying cry, a long gasping scream, like an animal being slaughtered. It rose and died away in the implacably blazing sun.
‘What was that? It must have been a horse breaking its leg.’
They turned and saw Palmyre still standing in the stubble amidst the sheaves of a nearby field. In her trembling arms, she was holding one final bundle of sheaves against her flat chest and trying to bind them. But with another agonizing cry of distress, even more strangled and frightening, she dropped everything, spun round and fell onto the wheat, struck down by the sun under which she had been roasting for the last twelve hours.
Lise and Françoise rushed towards her while Buteau followed at a more leisurely pace; and everyone else came running up from the neighbouring fields, Delhomme and his men, Fouan who had been lurking round and La Grande who was hitting at stones with the end of her stick.
‘What's happened?’
‘Palmyre's had a fit.’
‘I saw her fall from over there.’
‘Oh, heavens above!’
And they all looked at her with the awe which sickness arouses in every peasant, but without daring to come too close. She was lying face upwards, her arms flung out as though crucified on the earth in whose service she had so quickly been destroyed and which was now completing her destruction. She must have broken a blood-vessel. There was a trickle of blood from her mouth. But she was dying more of exhaustion, like an overworked animal, lying amidst the stubble so desiccated and annihilated that she was no more than a sexless, fleshless piece of limp rag, faintly breathing her last amidst the rich, fruitful harvest.
However, at last her grandmother, La Grande, who had repudiated her and never spoke to her, ventured nearer:
‘I think she's dead.’
And she poked her with her stick. The body, staring wide-eyed and sightless at the blazing sun, with its mouth open to the winds of space, made no movement. The trickle of blood was clotting on its chin. Then, bending down, the grandmother added:
‘Yes, she's dead all right. Well, it's better than being a burden on other people.’
Everyone stood shocked and motionless. Could she be touched without sending for the mayor? First of all they whispered and then began speaking more loudly so as to make themselves heard.
‘I'll go and fetch my ladder from the haystack over there,’ Delhomme said finally. ‘We can use it as a litter… You ought never to leave a dead person lying on the ground, it's wrong.’
But when he came back with the ladder and they wanted to put some sheaves on it to provide a bed for the corpse, Buteau protested.
‘You'll get your wheat back!’
‘I should damn well hope so!’
Rather ashamed at his meanness, Lise added two bundles of straw for a pillow and they lifted Palmyre's body onto it, while Françoise, in a sort of daze, dumbfounded by this death that had suddenly come out of the blue at the same time as her first encounter with a man, could not take her eyes off the corpse, full of sadness but above all of surprise that this could once have been a woman. Together with Fouan, she stayed on guard until it was time to go, and the old man said nothing, either, but seemed to be thinking that it was the lucky ones who die.
At sundown, when work comes to an end, two men came to pick up the litter. It was not a heavy load and there was little need for anyone to relieve them. Nonetheless, other people came along with them and formed a sort of procession. They cut across country, to avoid the longer distance by the road. The body was beginning to stiffen on the sheaves and under its head ears of corn swung up and down and to and fro to the rhythm of the steps. The sky was now living on borrowed heat, a heavy coppercoloured glow in the blue heavens. On the horizon, on the other side of the Loir, the oblique rays of the sun, now bathed in mist, shone with a low, even light across the fields. Everything seemed yellow, that golden yellow of an evening of good harvesting. The wheat that was still standing bore plumes of pink flame; the bristly stubble shone in delicate wisps of red; and on all sides the mounds of the haystacks loomed up like fleecy waves on the golden sea, stretching to infinity, becoming preternaturally tall as, with one side still afire, the other already in the dark, they cast their shadow far into the distance across the plain. A great peace descended; the only sound, high in the heavens, was the chirping of a lark. No one spoke amongst the work-weary labourers who followed along, their heads cast down, resigned, like a herd of cattle. And all that could be heard was the squeak of the ladder swaying under the dead body that they were bringing home amid
the ripened corn.
That evening, Hourdequin paid off his workers who had completed their contract. The men took home one hundred and twenty francs and the women sixty as a reward for their month's work. It was a good year, not too much flattened wheat, which chips the blade of the scythe, and no storm during the reaping. So there was clamorous applause when the foreman and his team presented Jacqueline, who was treated as the mistress of the house, with the traditional cross of plaited straw; and the final farewell feast was very gay. They disposed of three legs of mutton and five rabbits and the drinking went on so late that everyone went to bed the worse for drink. Tipsy herself, Jacqueline was nearly caught by Hourdequin as she was hanging round Tron's neck. Befuddled, Jean flung himself on the straw of his loft, but despite his tiredness he was unable to sleep, for the image of Françoise returned to torment him. He was surprised and almost annoyed by this because he had not felt much pleasure at possessing her, despite all the long sleepless nights when he had desired her. Since it had happened, he felt flat and empty; and he could have sworn that he would never want to do it again. But hardly had he gone to bed than she appeared once more before his mind's eye and his body awoke once more in a frenzy of lustful images; he had had little enjoyment from the act but every detail now revived to excite his desire. How could he arrange to have her again, how could he get hold of her tomorrow and the days following, for ever? A rustling beside him made him start, a woman was slipping in beside him, it was the woman from the Perche, the sheaf-gatherer who was surprised because he had not come to fetch her on this, her last night. At first he pushed her off and then he caught hold of her and squeezed the breath out of her; but it was the other woman he was clasping in his arms and would have held tight against himself, limb to limb, until all her bones were crushed and she had fainted in his arms.
